The End of Civilization
by 16-horses
Summary: Combeferre tries to study during a meeting of the Friends of the ABC, during which Grantaire almost poisons himself, Courfeyrac and Bahorel try to kill each other, and Prouvaire reveals his dangerous side.


A sudden knock on the door made Combeferre jump in his chair. He slammed his book shut, cursed, flipped it back open, tore through it till he reached his place, thrust another book between the pages, and sprang to his feet and knocked his chair over, somehow getting his legs tangled in its frame. He crashed to the door, yanked the knob around, and collapsed back to the floor, trying to kick himself free of the chair. A young man with sleek dark hair and mild brown eyes peered in. He attempted to open the door wider, but Combeferre was in the way. Squeezing himself in through the narrow space between door and doorpost, the young man shook the chair off of Combeferre's feet and shut the door. "What are you doing, Combeferre?"

Combeferre lurched to his feet and swiped his hair away from his face. Breathing hard, he returned the chair to its rightful place. "Studying."

"Well, next time you might want to try sitting on the chair instead of under it."

"I didn't – oh, that's not how it happened. I just – you just startled me, Feuilly."

"It's all right. That was nothing compared to the chaos I invoked in Joly and Laigle's house." Feuilly glanced at Combeferre's scholarly mess on the table: books stacked and sprawling, mostly in foreign languages, sheets of diagrams and notes, several candle stubs, and a dirty sock. Combeferre flushed and tried to put the clutter to rights. "Exams are coming up. I haven't had time to keep this place in order."

Feuilly looked around. "I guess that explains why you're doing your studying in an attic."

"What? Oh, yes. Didn't want to disturb anyone. Uh, why are you here?"

"It's meeting day."

"Oh!" Combeferre sprang in the air like a pin poked him. "I completely forgot!" He cast a desperate glance at his books. "But I've got to study… do you think I could take a book or two to the café?"

"I know this means a lot to you, Combeferre, but these meetings are about revolution, not exams."

"It'll be fine. I've missed a few days as it is –"

"When have you ever missed a day studying?"

Combeferre glared at Feuilly a good thirty seconds before continuing. "As I was saying, the meetings are mostly card games and arguments anyway. I'm feeling I'm lacking in a few areas, and I'll suffer if I don't catch up."

Feuilly turned his eyes up to the sloping ceiling but offered no arguments. He waited as Combeferre grabbed a book, flung the sock in a corner, and threw his coat over his shoulders. The two ran down a few flights of stairs and burst out onto the street, walking briskly to the Place Saint-Michel. Combeferre struggled to keep hold of his book and put his arms through the sleeves of his coat at the same time. At last Feuilly took the book from him so he could orient himself.

"Thanks," Combeferre muttered, blushing again. "I can't believe I forgot…"

"You're not the only one." Feuilly laughed a little. "Joly and Laigle also forgot. I ran too hard to their house, and by the time I arrived I was breathing so hard Joly was convinced I was getting asthma. I almost strangled him trying to stop him from fetching the doctor."

"The last time I went to their house he tried to make me take some pills for indigestion because he thought I looked too pale."

Feuilly turned his head and considered Combeferre. "You do look pale. Too much time indoors studying."

"It's not like your fan-making gives you a radiant tan."

Feuilly laughed again, harder this time, the sound like rushing water. "You don't look as if you've been eating, either."

Combeferre opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. He couldn't remember the last time he ate. Had he even eaten breakfast that morning? He groaned and rubbed the corners of his eyes. "I think I need glasses."

"What you need is a little fellowship with your friends," and the two walked through the door of the Café Musain.

A scene of happy and not-so-happy chaos besieged their eyes and ears in the café's back room: Enjolras, the chief of the Friends of the ABC, standing on a chair and almost screaming to make himself heard; Courfeyrac and Bahorel engaging in a vicious arm-wrestle, knocking cups and wine bottles and Enjolras's everlasting plans to the floor; Prouvaire sitting at the window with a vacant expression on his face and a flower stem hanging out of his mouth; Laigle yelling something into the ear of Joly, who was examining the label on an enormous brown glass bottle; and Grantaire leaning against the far wall, a half-empty wine bottle at his feet, enjoying the show.

"We've arrived!" Feuilly yelled. Combeferre retreated to a table in an out-of-the-way corner, flipped open his book, and feeling more than a little awkward gave one and all a rather sickly smile and started reading. The clamor quieted for a moment, and Enjolras took advantage of the silence to bellow, "We've just received word that –"

A crazy whoop cut him off as Bahorel slammed Courfeyrac's arm on the table. "Thrashed you again!"

"Again!?" Courfeyrac wailed, straining to break free of Bahorel's grip. "What do you do all day, except hang around bars and –"

"I thought you didn't drink, Joly," Grantaire said, picking up his bottle and ambling toward the hypochondriac's table. Joly scowled up at him. "This is my cough medicine!"

"I didn't know it came in bottles that big."

"You don't have a cough!" Laigle interjected.

Joly shot him an angry, saddened look. "I might get one." He drew a thimble-sized cup from his satchel and filled it with dark liquid from the bottle. Grantaire placed his own bottle on the table and ruffled Joly's golden-brown hair, making him choke as he downed the medicine. He slammed down the cup, wiped his mouth, and glared furiously up at Grantaire. "Now look what you did! If any more of that got into my lungs I would have suffocated!"

"It would have done more good there than in your stomach," Grantaire guffawed, and snatching up a bottle took a long drink. He almost dropped it as shock and horror plastered itself to his face. Clapping both hands to his mouth, he turned tail and tore out of the room.

Joly gazed ruefully at the two bottles standing on the table. "He just drank five francs worth of medicine."

"He probably needed it more than you," Laigle commented. "But anyway, back to what I was saying. I really don't think camphor oil is good for chills. All it does is stink, and if you use it in such large quantities as you –"

"What rhymes with ecstasy?" Prouvaire suddenly said very loudly. Everyone turned to look at him. He blushed. "I – I mean, I only wanted to know…"

"I don't think it has any exact rhymes," Feuilly said. "You might try a phrase, like, 'to the sea', or 'hope to be', or…"

"Or, 'kill Joly'," Grantaire growled, stalking back into the room, looking very pale.

"How about, 'kill Bahorel'?" Courfeyrac said in an equally wrathful voice. Bahorel snorted and leaned back his chair. "Cool it, little man. Maybe I just spend more time working out than flirting," and he examined the one bottle remaining on the table.

"I'll show you flirting!" Courfeyrac flung himself across the table at Bahorel. The impact sent them both sprawling backward on the floor with a hair-splitting crash. The two immediately set about rolling about on the floor, pulling hair, kicking and scratching and yelling at the top of their lungs. Joly shrieked and tried to climb the wall as Laigle and Feuilly moved their chairs back. Enjolras roared something unintelligible, pointing a furious finger at the warriors, and Grantaire took shelter behind him once he reclaimed his bottle – after carefully checking the label and sniffing its contents first. Prouvaire didn't notice.

Bahorel and Courfeyrac, occupied in trying to claw the other's eyes out, did not overly concern themselves with where they did so, and knocked against a table, which promptly fell on them. A mysterious slew of papers on top of it fluttered to the floor, one page landing in the wine puddle caused by their previous arm-wrestling.

Then Prouvaire noticed.

Prouvaire's screech resounded through the room as he hurtled from his window to the soggy mess. He snatched it up; held it high. "This," he confided at the top of his voice, "is all that is left of my medieval ballad that I spent days in writing. It is now ruined." He looked around the room to make sure everyone knew what that fateful word meant. "Ruined."

"I was and still am engaged in glorious battle," Courfeyrac defended himself and planted his fist in Bahorel's eye.

"Kill him!" Grantaire yelled, caught up in the excitement of the glorious battle. Courfeyrac and Bahorel both did their best to obey. Joly shrieked something about broken glass as Laigle tried to separate the combatants with the shattered leg of the overturned table. Prouvaire clutched at Enjolras's shirt, gasping with emotion. Feuilly checked the clock on the wall as though wondering if he should get back to work.

At the peak of utter catastrophe and the upheaval of civilization, one more young man with messy blond hair threw the door wide and thrust his head in. "Sorry I'm late. I forgot there was a meeting today. What'd I miss?"

Combeferre snapped. He threw his book down on his table so hard it scored a dent in its surface and roared, "Would you all be QUIET!?"

One more bottle shattered under Courfeyrac and Bahorel. Then, joy from heaven, blessed silence fell.

Combeferre stood, sucked in a deep breath, and carefully picked up his book. He faced one and all, looking into each and every one of their eyes. "If I flunk," he said very quietly and evenly, "it will be your faults. A revolution could hardly be more chaotic that this."

And with that, he tucked his book under his arm and left the café.

"He's going to give himself a sore throat, shouting like that," Joly commented. Enjolras glared at him, and Joly looked offended. "What?"

Marius stood in the doorway, blinking. "Does this mean the meeting's over?"


End file.
